


Nice Guys Finish Last

by bastardbones



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, Nightmares, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Survivor Guilt, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: Everyone look at Miki.
Relationships: Fudo Akira/Kuroda "Miko" Miki, Kuroda "Miko" Miki & Makimura Miki, Kuroda "Miko" Miki/Mayuta "Kukun"
Kudos: 12





	Nice Guys Finish Last

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this 2 years ago and it's never getting finished. Ta-da.

She exists like a background character in her own life, unimportant, as though her only purpose is to fuel the narrative of someone else's story.

She sees Miki Makimura’s photograph in the paper, watches a dozen interviews, and obsessively scrolls through her social media for new comments. They are all positive:

_You're so beautiful!_

_You're so talented!!_

_I love you, Miki!!!_

There's a picture of her in a bathing suit, but it is not the main focus. The shot is horizontal, meant to complement the impressive length of the beach, where the shoreline is decorated with seashells and muddy footprints. These small details cannot be seen without zooming in, which she does often, searching for imperfection where there is none. Makimura, positioned to the far left, simply views the horizon, back facing the camera. The setting sun bathes the image in warm, natural light -snap, flash. No filter needed. She suspects Akira took this photo. Akira with his kind soul and gorgeous body: dark, untamed hair… sharp, mysterious eyes… Akira and the lovely place he lives, so unlike her cramped apartment, where her only companion is a fast-aging grandmother. Akira is surrounded by gorgeous things: good food, great family, and PERFECT Miki.

She's not his type. She's convinced herself beautiful boys like him must admire equally beautiful people. Beauty gravitates within its own ecosystem, thriving, self sustaining. She recalls the days when Akira Fudo was as pathetic looking as herself: knobby legs, frog-like grin, and the ability to always, always come in last, with some of the slowest records in Kakigaku’s history. Slow and steady wins the race? Perhaps in life, but not on the track team. Akira’s heart made up for it, though. He had once escorted her home with an umbrella: the two of them had ran along the slippery street, beneath a merciless downpour (truthfully, they had half-run, legs still weak from practice). He insisted she keep the umbrella, even though that meant a wet trip back for himself. She thought that was silly and unnecessary, but it was within his nature to be caring of others, and so he shrieked in the rain with a humorous flail of his arms. He probably froze, but she felt warm for the rest of the day, embracing the umbrella.

Boys look at her. Akira doesn't look at her. Akira sometimes looks at other boys, the same way she sometimes looks at other girls. She wonders if they have that thing in common.

“Hey, Miki!” She is startled by the voice and almost drops her cell phone. “Race me to the store?”

“Who is that, Miki?” her grandmother calls from the neighboring bedroom. She already knows who it is. She rushes to the front door with the speed of a cat, then quietly opens its squeaky hinges. Mayuta greets her with a smile. “It better not be that boy!”

“It's no one!” she lies, “I'm going to the store!” then slams the door, indicating her departure. Her grandmother's hearing is bad, just like their relationship, so the shouting and banging are a product of both.

“You ready?” Mayuta asks.

“I won't go easy on you,” she teases, snatching his shades before breaking into a sprint down the hall. Normally, she wouldn’t be so rowdy - always so reserved in her actions - but this boy makes her heart flip.

“Hey, wait up!” He forfeits before they hit the sidewalk, before the race really begins, and they walk side by side in the backdrop of mid-afternoon. For all the recyclables he tows around, his stamina is low. She tries returning his shades, the glare of the sun menacing this time of day, but he makes a dismissive gesture. Feeling bold, she puts them on. “You look mad cute.”

“No,” she says with a doubtful laugh. She feels stupid now.

“I mean it! You're crazy cute!” He talks with his hands and she likes that. She likes the length of his fingers, admires the tattoos, wants to reach out to touch them. Retrieving his cell phone from his pocket, he asks, “Can I?”

She slows to a halt. No one ever wants to take her picture. Not unless it was a greasy boy from the bleachers during track practice, snapping enough pics of her bouncing chest to create a stop motion film. There was Mr. Nagasaki, too. She was naive and volunteered her body for a taste of the lens. It was a mistake. She winces at the recollection, at the phantom pains of chided flesh, rubbed raw by his unwelcomed touch. She never did see those photos.

“Sure,” she says.

Mayuta taps the camera option on his home screen, then lifts his phone in search of a good angle. He takes a small step back, then says, “Smile.”

She does.

The convenience store is uncrowded and a worker greets them accordingly. They walk to the back of the store, where the beverages are held, and while Miki grabs a bottled water, Mayuta draws a butterfly on the foggy glass door. It's a simple doodle. Using her finger, she makes a flower to accompany it. It's childish and simple and Mayuta snaps a photo of that, too. He selects a soda from a row of equally unhealthy drinks. When he offers to pay for hers, she wants to refuse, but with his unannounced arrival, she lacked the foresight to bring money. She unhands the bottle.

Outside the store, they twist the caps on their drinks. The water is tasteless, but most of her decisions are training conscious, small things that might help her be better, run faster. She trains often, even on days where there is no after-school practice, desperate to keep herself agile, scared of falling behind. She eyes what Muyuta is drinking, how dark and sweet the color looks, how the flavor would explode in her mouth. She could ask for a sip, just one taste, but denies herself this simple pleasure.

A group of boys have gathered in the parking lot and she squints upon finding them familiar. One of them begins to rap and as the others bounce and sway to the rhythm, Mayuta perks up. These are his friends, or at the very least, his gang. He’s already confessed his alienation among them - which explains his hesitation to approach - so behaves like a stranger, watching from a distance.

Their leader, Wamu, notices their missing member, interrupting himself mid-rap with a call of, “Kukun!”

Mayuta approaches and beckons her to join with a nod of his head. She's not sure what to expect. The gang studies her without comment, but she's aware of how their gazes drop, disregarding her face in favor of her chest. They all wear tattoos, simple patterns and symbols done in dark ink, much like Mayuta's. To a judgemental eye, they're regular punks, but all she sees is a group of boys who write rhymes about their feelings.

“Who's she?” Gabi asks.

“Well,” Mayuta starts, meekly rubbing the back of his neck, “this here is my friend, Miki.”

His eyes sparkle despite the dimming light. She remembers she's still wearing his glasses.

“Miki? Like Miki Makimura?” Babu asks.

“That ain't Makimura,” Wamu scoffs.

“Two Mikis?” one of the boys wonders aloud. He wants to know. Everyone wants to know.

She runs.

* * *

She eats him.

The first guy she really likes, and _she eats him._

“Hey, it's okay,” he's wheezing through the pain, somehow so collected despite the circumstances. It is the calm after the storm. There's at least a hundred bodies - most are mutilated beyond repair - strewn across the floor. Some are hanging from the ceiling, entrails connected them like wires. It's a sight that would make the Old Miki crawl into hiding, cover her mouth, then vomit anyway. Mayuta outstretches an arm, wanting to touch her and her monstrous face. She is no longer human. “It's okay, Miki.”

Overwhelmed by her transformation (and intoxicated by destruction) she bites his hand off. It tastes so sweet in her mouth and she wants nothing more than to swallow it, but Mayuta’s scream realigns her with humanity. She spits it out apologetically and it plops to the ground, mostly unscathed. He was already bleeding out, but he's looking paler now - corpsely. The tears flow freely, leaking from his eyes as he tosses his head back with a squirm. He attempts no escape, either too consumed by agony or harboring a sliver of trust for the spider girl, despite her unpredictability.

He looks like a wounded butterfly, with all his twitching. He looks beautiful and ruined. That carnal hunger from within her returns.

In a thunderous growl, she says, “I need you.”

She is unsure what she means by that, it just seemed right to say. Mayuta, reduced to sniffles and a twisted face, looks at her with his glassy eyes, completely vulnerable. They stare at one another for several seconds, before Mayuta musters the strength to roll on his side. He holds out his arm - the one she hasn't disfigured - perhaps understanding what she cannot.

Some female spiders devour their mate before, during or after copulation. She isn't thinking of this now, but she will certainly dwell on it later. Some mates will fling themselves on the fangs of their partners, killing themselves, offering their body as nourishment for the female and potential offspring. Not all males attempt this, some will part ways, un-cannibalized, after the coupling, and the female may move on.

“I need you, too,” he says. It is the last thing.

* * *

“Dammit,” she cries. _Why did it have to be you?_

She kisses his fingers, traces the tattooed letters with her lips, then sucks them into her mouth. Moistened by saliva, she positions them between her legs, coaxing the disembodied fingers inside, shivering at the sensation.

They are cold and unalive. She allows death to fuck her in the most bizarre ways.

Her clit goes untouched, throbbing from neglect, but it's not enough to inspire action. Instead, she settles on slow masturbation, using what's left of her would-be boyfriend as a toy. She shifts, raising both trembling knees to her chest, wanting it deeper. It's not enough. Her new body can take a lot, so this barely satisfies her. What she wants is Mayuta pounding into her, grunting against her neck, burying his head between her cleavage. She wants him to fuck her dry, squeezing into her tight ass as she fingers her squelching cunt. She wants him to suck his cum from her twitching hole. She wants his friends to watch.

Everyone look at Miki.

She throws her head back with a silent scream, killing the noise inside her throat before it can surface. Her grandmother is asleep - the apartment has paper thin walls - and besides, she is above sounding so pathetic. She wipes the tears away with her unoccupied arm, annoyed by her own vulnerability, then grinds down harder. Frustrated, she tweaks her clit between her knuckles for some relief, then succumbs to orgasm. Being a demon means an incredible (and often burdensome) libido; oversensitivity is no longer an issue. She rubs herself without the discomfort a human might experience, drifting on the remnants of her high.

She imagines Akira slipping through her window, crawling into her bed when she least expects it, pounding into her hole. Their bodies are unnatural, they could fuck each other to the brink of death. She clenches down on Mayuta’s hand. She's managed to take it all, and fists herself, _hard_. She imagines Akira’s fat cock inside her mouth, forcing her to swallow a load of semen, only to shove himself back inside. He'd chew on her nipples, suck marks onto her breasts, and she’d keen from the attention. She would invite him to sit on her face, and a priceless blush would burn across his cheeks. She'd open him up with her tongue, dig deep into the tight ring of muscle, taste him from the inside. He'd sob from the sensation, thrust harder against her mouth, and come without ever touching himself. He'd scream her name. He’d call her a good girl.

There's someone else there, sucking her toes, leaving a trail of wet kisses up her leg. She squirms at the advancement, but the intruder giggles at her unease, moving her to panic. Makimura, with her deceivingly soft hands, squeezes her thighs open then wrestles for a spot between them - and Akira assists, one hand to strangle her, another to make her watch. _No_ , she thinks. _No, no, no_.

 _Shh_ , Akira coos, _see how wet you are? You want this._

Makimura tastes her and her skin crawls, like a thousand baby spiders are escaping, seeking refugee, abandoning their mother’s embrace. There’s a tongue poking inside her, invading her, and it doesn't feel good. It’s all wrong. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment and Akira chuckles amidst her struggle, but pecks her face with mock affection. She doesn't want this.

_No._

Her clit is throbbing. Makimura closes her mouth over it, then sucks the nub, harder, harder, until the pressure is maddening. Her head becomes dizzy, a victim of carnal cravings, her body is disobeying, too, the way it often does now to mindless pleasures. Still, she doesn't want it.

_NO._

When she comes to, it's chaos. Scratches on the wall, the floor, stray clumps of polyester ripped from her pillow, flecked with drying blood.

* * *

It's raining cats and dogs.

Akira says that sometimes. How silly. How very cute. She used to imagine a flood of kittens landing safely on rooftops, then trickling down onto the street. A storm of soggy house pets. Now all she can imagine is ripping the meat off a stray cat. It would be a banquet, a million little heads to bite off. She'd unhinge her jaw and gobble them all down. There would be no struggle, just a simple destination from the sky to her rumbling stomach.

She lifts her umbrella.

“Oh, hey,” Makimura chirps with little introduction. Miki whips her head around. “My umbrella.”

“What?”

“Oh!” she exclaims, “I was just wondering where it went. I let Akira borrow it.”

“Akira,” she repeats.

The world will always revolve around Perfect Miki. It's so easy to hate her for it. It's so easy to love her, too; to smile to her face, to blow her a kiss in departure. To admire from a distance, but envy up close. Miki wants to snap the umbrella in half as much as she wants to walk her home.

“Take it,” Miki says to Miki.


End file.
